


Good Morning

by orphan_account



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Childhood Memories, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Gen, Memories, Nostalgia, Short, Short Story, poetry to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-06-27 09:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19787827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A collection of short stories of places closest to my heart.My memories may fail me eventually, but I have this to share.





	1. Good Morning

Quietly and gently, I sit myself down. Green grass prickle at me slightly, its blades sharp but not enough to cut, tickling me for a while. And though I am hardly the ticklish type, the uncontrollable grin that spreads across my face makes me chuckle. 

The sun peeks out from the clouds, greeting me from above its white throne, and I smile back, delighted to receive its love with open arms. Basking under the warm glow of the sun, I relished in the small feeling of victory. Its warmth embraces me even on a cloudy day like this. 

With tufts of grass twirled between fingers, I released my breath softly. The air is warm yet a mild breeze works its way to tussle my hair. It's messy now, but I don't care. With that, I fall with my back to the grass.

Good morning!


	2. A Shadow in my Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you see monsters in the day?

I had seen it enter my garden. I let it hang around. Floating above the shrubs, weaving through the vines. My eyes were drawn to the shadow the moment I had noticed, yet I had done nothing but stare. My feet were not rooted in fear, and I prepared to get up. But as I gazed at the sight, slowly, dazedly, and unblinkingly, I had fallen prey to its seduction. 

My balcony was wide open, the doors never shut. Now, I wished they were. 

Bringing with it the stench of death and despair, _it started to float indoors._


	3. The Bus Stop

He waits at the bus stop at the same time every morning. With a newspaper rolled up in one hand, he taps it against his thigh in a monotonous rhythm. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His feeble fingers curl around the paper lightly, as if holding a fragile piece of glass. His eyes never wander, always watching the quiet road ahead. The dilapidated roof threatens to fall at any moment, yet the man sits in peace. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He shows not an ounce of fear. Peculiar as it may be, he is waiting for a bus that never comes. 

I patter pass him to catch mine.


End file.
